The Intruder
by The Fifth Champion
Summary: A different outlook on William. He muses about Yumi and his life at home. “He’s the intruder, and he knows it.”


The Intruder

A/N: Wow…written extremely late. (It is 4:48 in the morning, currently) So please excuse any errors. Oh! And please **DO NOT FLAME JUST BECAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE WILLIAM. **Don't read the story if you don't! Otherwise, all your comments will be ignored. If you are intent on leaving intelligent reviews, however, please do so! Enjoy.

_He's the intruder, and he knows it. _

He curls up, unloved, beneath the thin sheet draped across his mattress. The cloth is strangely cold against his skin; the window-frame rattles as a gust of wind surges forth. He knows he should step up and slam it closed. But he doesn't. Instead he lets the icy air kiss his pale face and embrace him, the way no one ever does.

A single tear escapes his olive eye.

_He's the one always crying, and he knows it. _

He tries not to think back on the day (oh, how he loathes reminiscing!), but his mind reels painfully, and the fuzzy images within it sharpens to a vivid clarity. He sighs and concedes to these forces beyond his control; the damnable habit of musing is always too strong. He remembers something he once said, and a bitter smile cocks the corner of his stiff mouth.

"Always look to the future, never the past."

The laugh that leaves his lips is equally bitter.

_He's the one who always looks back to failures, and he knows it._

Today had not been a good day, he affirms, though it never is. As always, he had trudged home with the defeatist attitude that nobody knows about. Yumi's face had still been burnt into his mind's eye, but such detail is trivial and he pushes it out of his memory. He remembers entering his humbled home (a mansion that towered garishly above the entire block), and finding the yawning hallway empty of all presences. As usual.

_He's the one who's always alone, and he knows it. _

"Mom?" he had called into the stifling silence. The sentence had returned to him in a series of overlapping echoes. The sound of his footfalls had rebounded off the ornate walls. Again, though this time louder: "Mom!" A delicate woman had then emerged from the parlor, her face taut and white, framed by curly black tendrils. Her peach-colored dress tumbled to her feet in a heavy display of silk sashes and glittering pearls. Another gift from **that **man_—_he remembers shuddering at the thought of his mother's boyfriend.

_He'll only ever hear his own voice, and he knows it. _

"I didn't hear you," the woman had replied. Her tone was cold and precise. "Why must you bother me, anyway? I'm getting ready for the next big occasion coming up tonight."

He had sunk into a plush armchair at that, annoyed by its frivolous amount of ribbon, and stared at her. His mother's spindly frame looked like glass in that dress, so rigid and fragile, so easy to break. The excess cloth was to hide her bruises, he knew. But just as the lingering thought formed, her glare had collided with his, and so he dropped it to a carved wooden table, adorned with frilly lace and painted china. He wanted to shatter that perfect china.

"What occasion?" he remembers murmuring, somewhat dully.

"We're celebrating," A slight tremor had threaded its way through his mother's voice. "Jack and I, I mean. We're going out to celebrate our…" She stopped here, straightening a silver mirror on the wall. "…our engagement."

_He'll never win, and he knows it. _

His body turns icy cold, even as he thinks back on it, safe in his bed. The wind outside moans, echoing his own sentiments. He wishes it was all a dream, but he almost always wishes that. (Save for the moment he met **her, **of course…)

**"What?" **he had bellowed as he jumped to his feet. He could recall how the strap of his backpack had bitten irritatingly into his shoulder. The woman had merely studied him with vast indifference, brushing away a raven lock of hair. Then she had sighed and turned away from him.

"Willy, I know you don't like him, but it needs to be this way," The words came in a rush. "I need the cash."

His jaw had gone slack at such a statement. The fancy room around him blurred into a petty haze of expensive trinkets and decorations; only his mother's figure stood out clear. He couldn't believe how far her selfishness had driven her.

"Money!" he had scoffed. "We don't need money! Look at all this around us! Mom, you can't possibly marry an abusive man just to get richer!"

Oh, how he shouldn't have said such words! He shivers slightly, closing his teary eyes against the mental image he can't ever escape. The wind has heightened to a howl outside.

She had whirled around in a flurry of pinkish skirts; her eyes alight with a blazing fury. He remembers how her perfectly-painted red lips had twisted in an ugly grimace. The hatred that rang thick in her voice.

"How **dare** you bring that up, Willy! How dare you! Don't you understand? I need the money! I need the cash, and the flowers, and the dresses, and the jewelry! I need **more** of it! And I don't care how hard Jack beats me, as long as he's at the door the next day with a box of chocolates! Can't you understand? Can't you ever understand…?"

He thinks tears might have welled in his eyes, but he can't quite remember. Everything after the shrilly speech has fogged in his mind, save for one short statement by him, and his mother's muted response.

_He's never thought of, and he knows it._

"Mom," he had whispered in a quiet voice. "Drowning in superficiality won't bring Dad back." She had answered almost immediately. Her manicured nails, so sharp and filed, raked against the side of his face in a loud _smack. _Only a light scrape, but blood had oozed forth and touched his pallid skin. The woman had stared blankly at him, trembling, but he had not hesitated this time. Allowing his backpack to fall off his limp shoulders, he darted back into the corridor and out the door. He hadn't heard her voice calling him back, though perhaps it was because she wasn't.

_He always says the wrong thing, and he knows it. _

He buries his face in his pillow, sobbing, and the soft fabric irritates the torn skin. It was such a shallow graze, really, and he has no right to make such a fuss, but he does. The action frightens him; chills him to the very marrow of his bones. Mothers are not supposed to hit their children. But maybe that happens when their boyfriends hit them—

He had barged out the door and pounded down the steps, never halting in his frantic race against reality. He had run until his legs ached and his chest burned for air. He slumped against a rickety iron gate, gasping, and realized that he had returned to school.

Of course. His sanctuary. This is where he sees **her**, after all.

The sky had been swathed in darkling shades of purple and pink, the sun a sinking orange orb, so he had known that dusk was on its way. All borders were comfortably inside their rooms now, perhaps digesting dinner, while most non-borders had trekked home.

So he had assumed **she** was already gone.

But he had been wrong.

_He's losing, and he knows it. _

There Yumi had been, walking her graceful gait, smiling at that brown-eyed prince of hers. He had clutched the metal bars, ashamed of eavesdropping, but unable to resist. Stern had been smiling his rare grin, and Yumi's face had looked beautiful in the sun's dying rays. Her laugh tinkled through the air. He remembered sighing and wishing he was the one by her side.

"X.A.N.A always manages to come at the worst times," she had been saying. "Either during school or when my parents want me home. They're going to kill me today, I didn't even call—"

He still has no idea who X.A.N.A is. Or what it is. It floats in the back of his mind as a mild interest, but seems rather unimportant as he lies on his mattress, remembering.

He can't help but remember.

Stern had squeezed her hand, somewhat reassuringly.

"Don't worry," he said soothingly. "You came up with an excuse, didn't you?"

She had shuffled her black boots against the floor, smothered with autumn leaves, as her ebony locks brushing against the sides of her delicate chin. He smiles wistfully as he thinks of it. She will always be beautiful, even if she loves someone else. But then her chocolate gaze at met Stern's, and she had whispered words he cannot forget.

"Well, I—" she had halted. Her voice then lowered to a whisper. "I told them—I said…that I was in love, Ulrich…"

More tears trail down his wet cheeks. He has always known that Yumi loved Ulrich Stern; that he is fighting a losing battle, but her ringing words still sting him. She had made it absolute. His gushing tears stain the satin pillow, creating a damp puddle.

_He'll never get the girl, and he knows it. _

Ulrich had returned her tentative gaze, two ruddy-red patches appearing on his cheeks. For a long time they had simply remained that way, as the last dwindling rays of sunlight vanished completely. Basked in the forming shadows, the two seemed to be at a loss of what to say.

Finally: "Why did you…um…used that as an excuse?"

A slight smile had graced Yumi's perfect lips. "Because it's the truth."

He remembers cold numbness, then feeling the ice melt away, as the couple leaned forward. He had known what was supposed to happen next. A maelstrom of envy, depression, and hate struck his heart.

_It's not his kiss, and he knows it. _

But it had **not **happened. Yumi had tilted her perfect face, brown orbs fluttering slightly, and caught hold of his image by the gate.

"William?"

He realizes now how strange and disturbed he must have looked—tresses tousled by the wind, eyes red from crying; blood gushing down his neck. But at the time he had thought none of it. He had thought of nothing, as Stern swung his head around with loath chiseled into his features. He doesn't blame Stern, really, for being angry.

_He's always the one who spoils the moment, and he knows it. _

"William," Yumi had repeated with added confusion. "Are you okay?" She stepped forward and reality had crashed back down heavily upon him. He had felt his body shake. It is still shaking now, actually, hours later.

"I…I need to go home," was all he trebled. "I need to go home now—"

Then he had turned to leave, but a voice had rooted his feet to the ground.

"What are you even doing here? **Spying on us?"**

Truth and fiction are an illusion, he tells himself now, as the cold wind circulates through his cavernous room. And as they are illusions, he had not truly been lying when he stammered a lame "no" to Stern and walked away.

_Lying is his only defense, and he knows it. _

When he had returned home, the house was empty, no matter how many times he shouted into the impressionable air. His mother had gone on her damnable date with her damnable fiancé. After practically jogging up the coiling stairs to his bedroom, he had flung himself onto the feather mattress, breathing softly.

And that is where he is now. He thinks back on all his idealistic views, how he was expelled for posting up love letters everywhere, and realizes it was all a lie. Just a simple ruse meant to bandage pains he could not truly understand. He wants to believe such views to mend his broken life, but there is no real ardor behind his words.

Once, he had asked his mother, carefully, "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

The silence that followed had been pregnant with discomfort. But she had seemed intent on answering, and finally did so.

"No," had been her answer. "I believe in getting rich."

And with that she had flounced out the door with her clacking heels and jangling gold bracelets.

When he thinks about it, he has repeated the question once more, and again the replier had answered negatively. (1) So why is it that he believes in such a fickle, dreamlike idea? What gave him such hope?

He has no hope. It is a flimsy belief, one he knows he can't really believe, but clings onto. He clings because it sounds so beautiful—this love at first sight—and he needs it, because his life seems so empty of any sort of love.

His dad is dead, and a dead man can't love. He does not remember his father, though pictures depict a face similar to his, and he wishes he could see him once more. His mother refuses to tell him how Dad died; he knows the woman blames him.

His mother does not love him. He does not think she ever did or ever will.

Yumi does not love him. Sometimes he wonders if he truly loves her or if he is just clinging again, as he does with his false beliefs. It does not matter. He knows where her heart lies, has witnessed the undeniable truth, and can comprehend the fact that he is a mere obstacle in Stern's way.

**Like in a television show, **he muses, **the annoying guy who barges in on the soon-to-be couple and shakes things up. The bad guy. The one who never gets the girl. **

He laughs to himself, softly, and lets the poison words pass his lips.

_"I am the intruder, and I know it." _

A/N: I didn't try to make Ulrich look like the bad guy, so I hope he didn't. I actually quite like him.But it _is_ from a different point of view, remember. Again, please don't flame justbecause you hate William. (It will be ignored) But please read and review!

(1) Reference to when he asked Sissy. Don't remember the episode's name.


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